


Horizons We Wrest

by xyai



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-04 03:37:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5318966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xyai/pseuds/xyai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>What they’d had was uncertain given the circumstances, fragile and fumbling in its newness—he’d known that when he left. But he hadn’t thought he’d return to find Laurent like this.</i>
</p><p>Their wars are won and their secrets out, but the future remains unclear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Horizons We Wrest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SapphoIsBurning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphoIsBurning/gifts).



Sighting the tent’s glinting starburst insignia through the darkness, Damen steeled himself and ducked under the flap. Only battle-hardened resolve kept him from collapsing into the chair that stood by the entrance. When Laurent saw that it was him, he set down his parchment and stood up swiftly, running an assessing look over Damen’s stiff form.

“You’re hurt,” Laurent said, brow creased.

“I’m fine.”

“A phrase you tend to use liberally.”

“Four hard days’ ride, a few sword fights. I’m weary. That’s all.”  

In three brisk steps, Laurent was at his side, a warming presence despite the few inches that remained between them. Fingers gentle on Damen’s arm, he said, “Sit,” and Damen obeyed, glad for the excuse to rest his aching muscles.

As though sensing the sting of the cut, Laurent hovered a hand over Damen’s left shoulder and, with careful motions, pulled back the layers obscuring the telltale signs of injury. Laurent exhaled, barely audible, when he saw what lay underneath.

“Your shirtsleeve is soaked through with blood. You are far from fine.” He turned to leave.

“No—” Wincing through the pain, Damen reached out and caught Laurent’s wrist. The sensation of contact, small as it was, dizzied him, and he ran his thumb over the smooth plane of skin, savoring. “It’s nothing serious.”

“Even so—”

“It’s been three weeks,” Damen said. “The last thing I want right now is to be fussed over by a physician.”

Standing over him, Laurent held himself still, his gaze searching. “And what is it that you do want?”

Damen shifted his hold on Laurent, from wrist to palm and downwards, until their fingers were twined. “Tonight, only you. Will you stay?”

For a moment, Laurent didn’t answer. Then: “Your wound requires cleaning, at the very least.” Damen smiled at his tacit acquiescence. “But you should know, a soothing bedside manner will not come easily to me.”

Damen laughed. “I wasn’t gone so long that I have forgotten your very nature. Besides…” He tugged Laurent closer, pressing a kiss to his fingers. “It’s not a soothing manner that I’m hoping for.”

Laurent made a sound like amusement. “Being injured hasn’t tempered your appetite, I see. Were you hoping to bleed on me while we fucked? I can’t say the idea holds much appeal.”

“No, of course not,” Damen said, face warming as he released Laurent’s hand. “Nothing like that.” He paused, watching the sway of candlelight against Laurent’s skin. “It’s just—I’ve missed you.”

An inscrutable expression flickered over Laurent’s features. Seconds passed. Laurent said nothing. His face looked different beneath each leap of candle-flame, each thrown shadow.

“I’m sorry,” Damen said, eventually. He could still feel the heat in his face, and his pulse thrummed urgently. It felt as though he’d misplaced something crucial. He hadn’t forgotten Laurent’s nature in his weeks away, but maybe he’d forgotten something of what it was like, even now that the war was won, to be in Laurent’s company. The sense of treading a ceaselessly changing terrain, or of stepping where there was no terrain at all. “It’s been a long journey. I wasn’t thinking. I’ll have the physician see to my wound.”

He made to stand and was surprised to feel the press of Laurent’s hand against his good shoulder, stopping him.

The contact was short-lived; as though realizing a mistake, Laurent lifted his hand abruptly, then pulled it away, the motion like two jerks of a string.

“At least let me acquire the proper dressings before you proceed with your advances.” But Laurent didn’t say it in his usual way, all arched brows and arched tone. His voice was quiet.

He turned and made for the tent flap. Damen watched him slip away into the darkness, and as he sat there, a strange, painful throb moved through him, sunk more deeply than the gash in his shoulder.

* * * * *

The air was heavy with silence as Laurent cleaned and dressed the wound, his every motion precise. Under different circumstances—and someone else’s attendance—the situation might’ve been sensual. But Laurent’s fingers refused to linger.

It didn’t seem right to watch him as he worked. Instead, Damen kept his eyes on the map that hung behind the spare oakwood desk. Whoever made it had possessed a disdain for territorial fanfare. The wholes of Akielos and Vere spanned the map, borders etched in the same thin hand, barely distinguishable unless you knew where one country ended and the other began.

Inexperience prevented Laurent from moving at his usual speed. Damen felt the passing of each second keenly, measured in time by the pound of his heartbeat.

It had only been three weeks. What they’d had was uncertain given the circumstances, fragile and fumbling in its newness—he’d known that when he left. But he hadn’t thought he’d return to find Laurent like this.

Like before.

At last, Laurent fixed the final dressing in place, stepping back once he did so. Damen turned his head to inspect his handiwork. He could discern no misstep in quality by sight or feel.

“Thank you,” Damen said, allowing his gaze to be drawn back toward Laurent. It was the first either of them had spoken since Laurent’s return. “Was dressing wounds something else you spent countless hours practicing in your youth?”

This earned him a faint smile. “This was a recently acquired skill,” Laurent said. “And only passably so.” He remained standing but looked away, his gaze settling on nothing in particular, the way it sometimes did when he retreated into himself to think. Damen tamped down on the desire to pull him back. His hands remained still, gripped tight around nothing.

When Laurent spoke, it was again in that quiet voice. “I can’t remember the last time I spent so many days in idleness. I am told Arles is eager for my return.”

“Idleness?” Damen frowned. Something unnamed within him shifted a fraction. “Surely you and your men have been occupied trying to quell the—”

“We dispatched the last of them four days after your departure.”

Damen let the information settle, and the feeling bloomed, unbidden. “I’m sure your men are impatient to leave.”

“My men _have_ left. All but a crucial few, anyway.” Laurent’s voice had arranged itself back into sharp lines. “I had no reason to keep them confined to this barren slab of land. You might have noticed the lack of tents had you not barged in here straightaway after your perilous expedition.”

The outpouring was almost a relief, and Damen felt an urge to smile, rising helplessly from the twist in his gut. “But you waited.”

Laurent met his eyes. “Apparently I enjoy delaying the inevitable.”

“What are you—” He wanted to stand but stopped himself, knowing how it would appear. “What do you mean?”

“Tell me, Damianos, rightful King of Akielos.” Laurent was all coldness now. “Do you imagine that we will be together forever?”

His mind supplied an immediate answer; Damen pushed it aside. “Laurent...” He paused. “If your feelings have changed, I’ll do nothing to hold it against you. Just—tell me plainly, and I’ll go.”

Laurent threw him a look of disbelief, coldness forgotten. “You believe this to be about a _lack_ of feeling on my part?”

“Is it not? I… your feelings are often not clear to me.”

“Perhaps it is the loss of blood that has so impaired your mental faculties.” There was little venom behind the words, edged though they were. Laurent turned and made toward the desk. He stood there, right hand braced against the surface, holding himself straight, the trademark control suppressing what might have manifested as tense energy in anyone else.

Though Damen could not see his face, he could tell that Laurent’s attention was held elsewhere. By what, he did not know. He ventured, gently, “If your regard has not changed… what, then?” Another moment passed. “I know it is not in your nature to name the things that trouble you. But if you tell me, maybe I can help.”

“Your hopeless optimism will not do us any good.”

“No,” Damen agreed. “But neither will speaking in circles.”

The seconds piled slowly, one atop another. Before long, the silence had swelled to agony.

Then— “I think it unwise to behave as though our futures were assured.” Laurent turned to face him, expression flinty. “Let us not pretend we are swooning lovers aboard a garlanded ship, sailing heedlessly toward the setting sun. There are realities to attend to. We have our countries. We belong to our people. Not to each other.”

Damen stood and felt his mind reel, perhaps due to haste, or weakness from his wound. He caught a hand on the back of the chair and forced himself to wait for the pall to clear from his vision, hating that he must wait.

When he could, he moved forward, stopping before Laurent, who regarded him with his chin tilted, a challenging glint to his eyes.

“Perhaps you think a few sweetly whispered lines will cause me to tip into your arms,” Laurent said. “You can spare yourself the effort.”

“Stop it,” Damen said, shaking his head. “You’ve already said it yourself. Your feelings haven’t changed, and neither have mine. As for the rest of it, you’re right—we both have our countries to think of. But we are not only kings; we are also men. And I will say this and mean it wholly: I am as much yours as I am my peoples’.”

The cruel light in Laurent’s eyes had dimmed, and yet, whatever had provoked this spell was not so quick to dwindle. “You seem to forget that our capitals sit at opposite ends of this land.”

Damen shrugged. It was a concern, but right now, it did not seem so important. “Land can be traversed. Capitals can be moved. We’ll find an answer.”

“Our people despise one another.”

“I despised you when we first met.” Damen was gratified to see the corner of Laurent’s mouth lift. “To say nothing of how you felt about me. I’ve seen you win over sworn enemies, convince sensible people to take outsized gambles, and pull men back from the edge of mutiny—often using only your words. Now you must simply turn those same charms on a few others.”

“‘A few others,’” Laurent repeated. “You’ve lost more blood than I thought.” He turned his head to the side. The candlelight flattered him, drowned the room in ochre.

Some time passed before Laurent spoke again. “I suppose I am unused to… hoping.” His voice had quieted. “Optimism seems a dangerous act.”

Damen reached for him—slowly, so that Laurent might stop him if he wished to. No such command came. His hand found Laurent’s, familiar in coolness and sword-callused palm, written of years of training. On Laurent’s features, Damen read no signs of pleasure, but neither was there hostility. Damen took another step forward, closing the distance between them. He could catch the clean scent of leather and soap now, and as he breathed in, he was struck by a sharp pang of relief and gladness.

“We’ve beaten the odds before,” Damen said. “We’ll do so again.”

Laurent regarded Damen without shifting to accommodate the change in their positions. An expectant silence hung in the air.

Eventually, Laurent released a careful breath, and with it, some of the tension seemed to drain from his body.

“I see now,” Laurent said. “You are advising me to approach love as I would a military campaign.”

Damen laughed. “If that helps,” he said, the other hand lifting to Laurent’s nape. He could feel the ends of Laurent’s hair, curled gently against his finger. He leaned forward to brush a kiss against Laurent’s forehead. Not wanting to move away, he stayed there, forehead lowered to Laurent’s, reveling in the simple fact of his presence. He was close enough to feel the measured rhythm of Laurent’s breathing like it was his own, close enough to watch the emotions play subtly across his face. Damen closed his eyes, overwhelmed by a rush of feeling, like waves breaking at high tide.

“It will be because of you that our nations crumble to dust,” Laurent muttered. “We will be known as foolish, moon-eyed kings, too busy exchanging mawkish endearments to pay heed to the concerns of our people.” Yet even as he said it, he moved his hand to rest lightly on Damen’s arm.

“That doesn’t seem very likely,” Damen said, pressing a kiss to the curve of Laurent’s cheek. “You’re too fond of winning.”

“And yet,” Laurent said, “I can’t deny the appeal of spending our days plying each other with honeyed remarks.”

“Oh,” Damen said, mirroring Laurent’s solemn tone. “Is that why you were so eager to win the war?”

For a time, they stood as one, Laurent’s hand running over Damen’s arm in absent, soothing motions. “‘An end to fighting,’” Laurent said, an echo of the recent past. “You said that once. The most I ever dared to imagine was a peaceful reign. I never thought I would rule alongside anyone.”

“I’ll be here,” Damen said, and he knew, with a depth that went beyond himself, that he meant it. “For as long as you want me. Or until our nations crumble.”

“Not very long, then.” Laurent’s eyes were half-lidded now, and there was an enticing curve to his lips.

Damen smiled. “Longer than you think.” Gently, he tipped Laurent’s face toward his, heard his breath lengthen.

Into the fleeting space before their lips met, Laurent said, softly, “I did miss you,” and in that moment, it seemed enough to hope.

  



End file.
